The sum of our memories
by SilverRibbon
Summary: What is a man, but the sum of his memories? If our life experiences shape us, give form to our souls, and make us who we are…what then do we become when taking on the memories of another? A man can not walk in the shoes of another and not come out changed. Slight AU. Desmond starts to change as he relives the past and the lines between Altair and Desmond blur...
1. Chapter 1

_PROLOGUE_

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_"We have a problem" _

_HE__ had a problem!_

It was wrong...everything…

Everything was wrong.

The woman's voice sounded out omnipresent...it emanated from someplace above and all around him. The disembodied voice was only a small part of the intense 'wrongness' that caused Desmond's heart to race and the blood in his ears to rush so loudly that the sound threatened to drown out the din of the unnatural crowd that surrounded him.

The crowd…

The people surrounding him were terrifying. Figures somehow both very tangible... and yet also horrifically indistinct made up the unholy mass, they wandered around his shaking figure on the way to some impossible destination. Rivers of these faceless, nightmare-creatures flowed past Desmond on both sides, crowding him from every direction. It was with a terrified sense of uncoordinated desperation that the bartender moved through the mass…. he brushed past them roughly. Pushing through clusters of 'pseudo people', striking out in an effort to cause an escape route so he might put distance between himself and the overwhelming feeling of panic that had started to rise from his core and threatened to drown out all sane thought.

_"Desmond I need you to try and relax…"_

A man's voice this time…equally disembodied and doing nothing to inspire the reaction it was attempting to inspire. Part of his subconscious mind registered the voice, the request…but it would go unheeded. Most of the young man refused to focus on anything besides the sound of his own footsteps pounding the unnatural landscape as he ran…. darting first one direction and then another in his rush to find an exit from this madness_. _The word 'relax' did penetrate his growing panic however and it was met with a spike of disbelief.

Relax?

He had to be kidding. Around him the world flickered, blue tinged and hazy as it was already unnatural enough, but when images …buildings, cities, and landmarks too blurred and fractured to identify flashed in front of him forming a stream of blurred nonsense, all hope at 'relaxing' effectively vanished. Prior to the pulsing and shifting images Demsond would not have thought it possible…but somehow the return of the blue-tinged anonymous and literally faceless crowd struck him as fractionally comforting…not that this was saying much…

He had to find a way to get away from this place…to get back to the normal word…

_"I'm going to try and stabilize him…"_

Her voice again, the woman who had spoken before. Who was she? He didn't recognize he, didn't know the voice…should he?

He didn't know.

_"Focus. Listen to the sound of my voice. Recognize that what your seeing isn't real. Just a picture of the past. It can't hurt you."_ The man was speaking again. But what the hell was he talking about? It wasn't real… It wasn't real?! The voice was wrong. This was somehow very real despite its wrongness. A faceless man in the crowd bumped harshly into his shoulder causing his upper body to jerk to the left. He felt it. His shoulder ached, and the pounding behind his eyes intensified. This was plenty real enough...the unknown man didn't know what he was talking about. A wave of nausea caused his stomach to spasm. His head pounded, a steadly growing pressure behind his eyes now adding to the pressure applied to an already strained mind.

_"Damn it! it's not working!"_

_"Give it a moment. He'll adjust. The first time is never easy._

_"We are losing him!"_

_"That's enough…"_

_"We need to pull him out."_

The blue tinged landscape was fading in and out, but he hardly noticed the change over the pain behind his eyes and the spinning sensation. Desmond couldn't even separate the people from the landscape anymore…it was just…all blurred together. And for some reason…even if he closed his eyes …the images still surrounded him.

He couldn't block them out. Why wouldn't they go away?!

_"Alright Desmond, we are going to try and bring you out now."_

Everything faded into white. And he had never been so happy for painfully bright eye watering white. White was safe. Formless. Stationary. The ceiling came into focus above him, and a skylight with bright sunlight glared through opalescent glass. It was an object he could identify, and he almost cried out in relief. But he couldn't make a sound…there was no air in his lungs. Desmond gasped and struggled to breathe for several seconds. It felt like he had been underwater, holding his breath for far too long. That had been his first time. The first time his word was torn away from him. And his situation had not gotten any better after reality returned. Upon 'waking up' from the distorted 'nightmare' Desmond had been told, in no uncertain terms by his kidnappers, that he would cooperate willingly. He was informed he would help them get some information out of his head using …unbelievable sounding technology out of some science fiction movie…or be placed into a permanent coma…and become essentially living-dead.

And how were they going to get what they wanted?

Genetic memories.

The…Doctor…and he used the term lightly, told him that what people called 'instinct' was influenced by genetic memory. And the machine... which they called the 'animus' read those memories coded into your DNA...passed down from your ancestors and brought them forward for examination. They were after something in his very DNA…some memory, some information from the lifetime of a distant ancestor. But the memory they were looking for was apparently so traumatic and alien to Desmond's subconscious that his mind refused to cope and struggled against the Animus, keeping the information locked away…so it was decided they were going to start farther back, and 'ease' him into the memory they wanted. Meaning he would have to relive his ancestors life for some unknown length of time while his captors looked for something that was kept secret from Desmond himself.

After all HE didn't need to know what they wanted, the bastards would know when they saw it…all Desmond had to do was try not to go insane or die before they were finished.

It was like some twisted joke.

Desmond had run from his past in an effort to be free…and ironically the past had become his life and his prison in a very, very, big way.

They put him back in. He didn't have a choice.

The first few minutes of his second 'trip'…were not as bad. Unlike the first time he wasn't really 'there' enough to panic…it was more like watching an involuntary slide show…a very long and tiring, headache inducing, slide show.

And then … things slowly began to change.

He started to change...


	2. The lines begin to blur

Chapter 2 - The lines begin to blur.

-This story is rated M for occasional strong language, and a healthy dose of violence and gore. :3 -

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The second time he was placed in the Animus Desmond found that the blue haze was back... and he groaned.

Not this again.

At least this time…the faceless people were no place to be seen. Of course 'nothing' could be seen. Just a flat featureless bluish plain with nothing in the distance as far as the eye could see on all sides. A voice echoed across the landscape and it was not one he had heard before…this one was artificial sounding…like it was computer generated. The artificial voice was…explaining things to him. It told him how he was supposed to 'puppet' his ancestor and move through the memory generated landscape. If he lost 'synchronization' the voice explained, than the memory would start again instead of preceding forward.

Wait…puppet? Wasn't he simply going to be…seeing his ancestor's memories? Desmond's mind skid to a halt.

**_"Wait. What do you mean puppet? I thought I was just going to be seeing the memories…like a projector right Doc?"_** his voice had echoed into open air.

The computer continued talking, non-responsive to his question, telling him to follow instructions. It was like some fort of…tutorial…and as Desmond wanted this to end as quickly as possible he followed instructions the best he could. This was accomplished by maneuvering around and interacting with figures and blue buildings that appeared and vanished on the blue landscape around him.

_Do not hurt the innocent._

_Do not draw attention._

_Do not endanger the clan._

The parting advice echoed in his ears as his 'training ended'. Stay in sync with your ancestor's way of life. Follow the code. There was a lurch…a jerking sensation someplace behind his eyes and the world around him changed…

**_"Wait! There must be another way, this one need not die." _**

The voice that had called out to him had become the first thing he was aware of…Desmond had felt himself moving…but he wasn't thinking about it, wasn't willing his body to move. It was not intentional motion, instead something more like.. a reflex…or the first few minutes after waking from a deep sleep when a person was half coherent and aware of what they were doing. The first thing he registered besides the voice was this involuntary motion…. his arm descending down towards a man's neck and as his vision sharpened both the image and the sensations of the action were engraved on his mind. There was almost no resistance as the blade slid into the nameless victim, severing the spinal cord and an artery. As the blade was pulled effortlessly out again, the body was allowed to fall to the stone beneath his feet. There was…a lot of blood.

It was obviously a quick death. The old man never knew what hit him.

But that was scant comfort. Desmond knew…he felt somehow that his ancestor felt nothing for the man he had killed. No guilt. No hesitation. Nothing but satisfaction with his performance…his success. Why would he feel remorse after all…? It was merely an action necessary to complete his task, and he always accomplished his tasks. And sensing that dismissive attitude towards taking a man's life as if it were nothing…. was almost as disturbing a feeling for Desmond as feeling like he had been somehow 'involved' with the murder itself. Slowly Desmond became more, and more aware of what was going on around him… and that had not proven to be a good thing considering that particular 'memory' did not ended well.

But Desmond came to realize over the next several days…that more than a few of his 'sessions' ended that way…and none of them were what he would consider pleasant memories. The Doctor was wrong. The 'images' could hurt him. While the sensations were dulled somewhat Desmond still felt it when his ancestor was injured in battle, when he landed from a particularly high jump, when he was hot, or tired, or parched.

And as his time in the Animus passed Desmond learned a lot. About the ancient world, about how the history books were wrong….and about his ancestor…Altair. The Doctor had called the Animus a 'projector'… where you could view the memories. But it was so much more than that. It was obvious to Desmond that the Doctor had never taken his contraption for a ride. Because he was not 'watching' his ancestor's life….he was living it. At first he lived it as involuntary passenger, a prisoner in another man's body…helpless to control his actions and often horrified by them.

Then a little later on he still acted as a passenger unable to change events, but able to feel his limbs move as Altair moved his own and able to cause slight pauses and hesitations if he concentrated…as if the two somehow had their limbs tied together like a puppet and puppeteer. ..each pulling against the strings of the other. More time passed in the 'other world' and he started to feel what Altair felt …along with having a little more control over moving as Altiar moved and influencing those movements. In the beginning the feelings he shared with his long dead ancestor were only those containing strong emotion, most often anger, hate, and the intense determination while in pursuit. But soon Desmond knew more and more what thoughts and emotions flowed behind the master assassin's unreadable gaze…by then it was not only the master assassin's movements that were being shared, but his feelings and unspoken thoughts as well.

The world of his ancestor became so unbelievably real…that Desmond started to lose his ability to tell if the ancient world, or his own felt more authentic . The feel of Altair's robes against his skin and the weight of the sword, leather, arm-guards and hidden blade as they rested against his body…all of it was so detailed. Desmond could smell the cooking fires. Feel sun warmed sandstone beneath his fingers as he climbed. The chill of desert nights against the skin of his face. The metallic tang of blood when it hung so thick in the air you could taste it…a taste that sometimes stayed in his mouth even after Desmond left the Animus. The warm slickness of the red liquid on his fingers…the weight of a victim going limp beneath his grip….all of this…stayed with him even after he was locked in his 'room' at night.

All of it…everything he felt, and sensed in the Animus became terrifyingly real… truly indistinguishable from the real world when it came to the level of detail and sensory perception.

And then, finally, only a couple of days ago Desmond found he could move Altair's body as if it was his own….he was in control. But by then…the boundaries between the two of them had blurred beyond distinguishing one from the other. His thoughts, and Altair's… had blurred and Desmond didn't know where he ended and Altiar began. In the Animus Desmond now felt as Altair felt. He became Altair in every way that mattered. When Desmond was in the Animus he felt in control of Altair's actions. But the truth…the terrifying truth that he could recognize only when outside the Animus…. was that he had no control at all. Desmond was following a predetermined script and the very worst part was… that it felt as if he was acting of his own free will.

Inside the Animus he was powerful. Skilled. Confident…unbreakable.

Outside he was weak. A prisoner. Helpless to alter his own fate.

But that difference also started to blur for Desmond. And the first to take notice would not be Desmond himself…but rather the assistant he had started to form a sympathetic relationship with.

Lucy…

She noticed it first…and once his attention was drawn to the change…it only seemed to grow stronger. A couple of weeks after Desmonds…'arrival'…the first warning would appear…even if she didn't know what it meant at the time…

**"Ok Desmond, get into the Animus. Let's pick up where we left off."** Lucy tried to sound cheerful as she walked across the floor with quick strides, heals clicking against the cold metal floor as she moved to stand next to the familiar machine.

**"Whatever you say Lucy."** Desmond drawled in his usual resigned yet slightly friendly and amused tone …one used only when talking to the blond assistant. The ex-bartender-turned-captive would move across the open space, approaching the Animus as requested. His dark eyes would flicker across her form while he approached, taking note of the signals that spoke of a lack of sleep.

Her posture was slightly hunched over and not because she was scanning the data pad, her movements uncoordinated…she must have slept wrong on her right side, that arm was slightly slower this morning compared to the left. A mildly pinched nerve and knotted muscle perhaps? Her breathing was slightly off as well; a bit uneven…she probably had a headache. Something was stressing her out more than usual. Desmond came to a halt a few feet behind and slightly to the left of her, mutely considering his next action for a heartbeat before opening his mouth with the intent to ask if she was alright, and if she wanted him to climb into the Animus right away….or take a crack at getting the knot out of her shoulder.

However before any sound came out Lucy would sigh and spin around with a frown etched onto her youthful features **"Desmond, will you please come over he…aah!"**

Desmond watched with amused puzzlement as she paused part way though her annoyed sounding snap and jerked backwards, eyes widening and the clipboard formerly in her hands clattered to the floor. His eyes drifted slowly from her features to the clipboard and then back up onto her face, one brow arching while a lopsided questioning smile tugged one corner of his mouth up. Desmond tilted his head questioningly…mutely asking what that was about…the amusement in his eyes obvious.

**"Gods…Desmond you scared the hell out of me. When did you learn to move so quietly? I didn't hear you walk over … I thought…"** She had thought he had stopped on the other side of the room, hesitating and not wanting to get in the Animus right away…not that she would blame him for hesitating. But obviously that was not the case. Her slightly widened eyes took in her 'patient' and his expression. The dark brown and gold tinged questioning gaze, the ever so slight tilt of his head to the right, and the slight smirk curving his lips upwards. Her words would trail off as she studied his face…something was…slightly odd about him this morning…not quite 'right' somehow. After a minute of what almost became uncomfortable silence she shook her head suddenly finding her reaction silly. There was nothing wrong with him. She was just tiered and had been too focused on setting things up to hear his approach…that was all. **"I need to get more sleep." **She sighed shaking off the feeling of unease that had taken hold a moment and adding **"Ok Desmond, up you go."**

Desmond would move the last few feet and climb obediently up onto the animus, positioning himself on the platform as he had several times before. **"Yeah…you might want to do that…can't have you accidentally scrambling my brains right?"** he teased as the screen slid across his vision** "You might want to get that shoulder looked at as well…pinched nerves can be a bitch if you let them sit too long."** He advised with slight concern in his voice, eyes set directly ahead as he slowly forced his muscles to relax in preparation for the transition to the 'memory world'. The sound of her fingers on the control panel faltered. And although Desmond could not see her…he knew she was startled. He could hear her breathing pattern shift. First pausing for a two seconds as she held her breath, and then resuming at a slightly quickened pace…his eyes had been closed, but the gold tinged orbs would slide half open .

**"Was it something I said?"** Desmond asked calmly after a moment.

**"No. No. It's fine Desmond. Ready? Ok…here we go."** Lucy watched as his body once more relaxed the rest of the way, those gold-tinged eyes un-focusing and sliding shut as his consciousness slipped away into the program. Stepping back from the controls for a moments he simply…looked at him.

How exactly had Desmond known about her shoulder? Lucy was an old pro when it came to hiding things like that…sore muscles, bruises, small signs of discomfort. But somehow…somehow…even Desmond…. as tiered as he was from repeated sessions…had been able to tell something was wrong. And without any apparent effort he could tell her exactly what was bothering her this morning. Was she slipping that much? Or was something….odd…going on here? And for that matter had Desmond's eyes been quite that…golden tinged…yesterday?

A couple hours later Desmond was being withdrawn, he felt the 'pull' centered behind his eyes and at the base of his neck. They were calling him back to the future world. Desmond hesitated to call it the 'real' world as the two had become interchangeable as far as what felt the most authentic. Sure, he knew the 'future' world was the one he was native to, born into, but that didn't mean it felt more real than the past. Desmond's consciousness fought the withdrawal at first, reluctant to give up that confident, powerful feeling of being Altair…even embroiled in a conspiracy….. his ancestor was more free than he was.

The world around him rippled slightly as he paused in a narrow ally, ducking back into the shade cast by one of the stone buildings. Desmond sighed and ran his right hand through his bangs, careful not to dislodge the hood that shielded his features. A merchant just outside the alleyway few yards away started to announce the wonders of his current wares. Desmond shifted slightly to avoid being bumped by a woman paying less attention than she should while carrying a crock full of water and taking a shortcut through the narrow corridor.

He didn't want to go back.

If he tried…could he stay here? Did he have to return? Or here in this place…when he was Altair..did he have more control over that aspect as well?

Frowning Lucy made a few adjustments in the 'other' world and the pull became stronger. Desmond grit his teeth, his fingers …all nine of them…curling into fists as a pounding began to settle in behind his eyes. He was Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad…and that woman would have to try a lot harder to make him go where he did not wish to be. And should she succeed he would make her wish she had failed.

Wait.

No.

No…that wasn't quite right!

**"Come on Desmond…don't do this to me**…" her voice rang out, a sound only he heard as the people nearby continued to go about their business unaffected.

Lucy….she sounded…scared…

Desmond. That's right…He was…he was…

His concentration faltered as uncertainty poisoned Desmond's focus…he felt his mental grip slip. The world faded to white.

Desmond's eyes slid open to catch the worried features of Lucy hovering over him…And the markedly less concerned scowl of the Doctor as well. Did that man even know how to smile? Seriously.

**"Don't scare me like that. Ok…Desmond…time to get some rest." **Lucy breathed a sigh of relief. He felt a little bad for frightening her.

**"I told you he was fine. Just a little tired I am sure. We are behind schedule now…these little breaks cannot continue. " **the man's lips pressed into a thin line, a dark look cast Desmond's way. A look Desmond returned with a cool unblinking gaze. Gold tinted eyes captured the older man's …and held them.

**"That was more than a little tired Doctor…I couldn't…" **she paused as her glance flickered over to Desmond as he moved to sit on the edge of the Animus, balancing on the edge of the platform…still not breaking his gaze away from the other man. Something about his posture…both relaxed and somehow coiled at the same time…made her distinctly uneasy.

**"Anyway….I'll give you my report in the conference room." **She pressed…studying Desmond.

**"If you must."** The Man huffed after breaking away from his 'staring contest' with the patient… and striding towards the conference room, coffee cup clasped perhaps a little too tightly between his fingers. He was not…. Intimidated by the subject…certainly not! Preposterous!

Idly Desmond glanced at the clipboard nearby. Lucy must have picked it up and placed it on the control panel while h was in the Animus. Desmond glanced at the pen that rested on it. Then back to the Doctor's back. It was a fool mistake to turn your back. Fifteen feet. The pen. Six inches would be long enough. Five seconds. Dull…so it would take more force. However…It would be easy enough. The eye was not his preferred target, but it would do. Dark eyes shifted to Lucy…but what about the other one? He could use his bare hands if nessasa….

Wait. No. What the hell had he just been thinking?

Desmond gave a slight shudder, his hands suddenly tightening with white-knuckle force on the edge of the platform. Desmond suddenly felt a little sick**. "I'm going to lie down."** He exiled the words in a rush of air, and although he was slightly dizzy moved towards his room as fast as he could manage. Which turned out to be faster than he expected as Desmond stood at the threshold to his room before the dizziness had a chance to hit him. The door slid open and he stumbled…barely making it to the bed before collapsing.

What. The. Hell.

Sure…he hated the Doctor…and it would be a lie to say he had not thought about escape several times over his time in this place. But until today…he had never thought about KILLING the man to escape. And Lucy? He had started to think about….

He didn't want to think about it. Raising both hands he placed them over his eyes and concentrated on his breathing. Desmond would like to pretend it wasn't anything to worry about. After all he could not kill someone with his bare hands.

_But you could._

A murmuring in the back of his head more thought than words but clear as any spoken message…corrected him. The flash of a memory flickered behind his closed eyelids, hands clasped just so on both sides of the head…a sharp twist…the sound of vertebrae cracking, separating…it was done. He could do it.

_'No! Altiar can! I can't!'_ he mentally shouted the words pulsing in time with the pounding of his own heartbeat in his head.

_'It's the same…'_ his a quiet part of his mind calmly murmured back.

Desmond gave a shudder as exhaustion took hold and the dark dreamless fingers of sleep gained a grasp. _'It's the same thing.'_ … him... Altair…it was all the same. And that's what Desmond was starting to think might be true. And it scared him to death.


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